


Micah "I Am Not Gay I Do Not See It" Bell

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, micah big gay, uh oh! oopsie!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Relationships: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 55





	Micah "I Am Not Gay I Do Not See It" Bell

The air around Clements Point was particularly foggy that morning, the lake’s water in constant unrest because of the storm the night before. Bullfrogs croaked, and sparrows started to sing an early morning song in the trees around camp. He hadn’t gotten good rest that night, he never did, so instead of sleeping for more than two or three hours he’d went on a patrol. Now, as he swayed exhaustingly at the little birch tree, sharpening the same knife over and over, his mind wandered to his newfound “friend.”

Morgan. Arthur Morgan. The stupid, slow, stubborn, kind son of a bitch. After he'd gotten the shit beaten out of him in Strawberry, the man had been a little less rough around the edges with him. The nasty comments were a little less loaded, and when he'd had to sit around his shitty makeshift campsite licking his wounds, Arthur had offered to assist with a sardonic "Ya need help, dumbass? You're not wrappin' em right."

He was considered Dutch’s “second best son” only to John. Micah hadn’t been able to guess before, but now he knew why Dutch favored Marston: blind obedience. He may harbor some resistance sure, but John kept quiet and did as told. Arthur though, he was different. He tried to knock some sense into their leader a time or two alongside Hosea, he asked Dutch why he was doing the things he did sometimes. Most others just went along with whatever the boss said, and then complained later when it didn’t pan out. 

And… well, he could be honest with himself. Arthur was nice, too.

Micah hated him. He did. The hate was so palpable, it writhed and squirmed in his belly like tapeworms, and eventually grew to feel warm and soft and fluttery, like monarch butterflies. He felt hot and stuffy in the head when the gunslinger interacted with him, a skull full of cotton balls and honeycombs. And he hated it. He hated thinking about it.

He would even daydream, for fucks sake. When his thoughts meandered to Arthur, sex was involved maybe half the time. The bigger of the two of them pinning him down, calling him a good boy, running his rough hands all along his body and through his hair, while the man used him, pumping him full… he licked his lips, his cheeks turning a near unbearably red color. Anymore ideas like that and he would have a stroke in this heat.

All the other times though, it was just… very domestic. He would think about Morgan running his fingers through his blonde hair and telling him how his day had been. Or him lazily seated on Arthur's lap, while the man held him and spoke about whatever would be on his mind. Finally being able to sleep soundly knowing he had someone to watch his back. Or forehead kisses. Or nose kisses. Or kisses in general.

He wasn't a fucking softy. Only weak people thought about that kind of stuff, the kissin' and the holdin' and whatnot. And Micah Bell was a lotta things: cruel, hot-tempered, spiteful, ruthless, murderous. But he wasn't any goddamn weakling, he didn't need nobody to be kind to him or protect him from shit. His daddy had made sure of that. But yet, he still enjoyed those impossible daydreams. He still didn't hold himself back from having them, he fully indulged in the idea of having his wounds nursed by someone who halfway knew what they were doing, having someone to vent to and vent with, someone who could take his shit, someone who… liked him. 

It terrified him. Out of all the night terrors he'd ever begrudgingly admit he had, out of all the close scrapes he'd gotten into, all the instances with his father… THIS was what took home the cake. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

“Shit!” with a snick, the knife cut into his thumb like butter, practically fileting it. He’d missed the grindstone by just that much, and now blood was oozing out of his finger. The only reaction he got was Mary-Beth and Kieran eyeing him for his little outburst, the two of them sitting together and reading, with him stood at the tree in front of the scout fire. Besides that, no one seemed to bat an eye.

He rushed over to the medicine wagon, hand dripping fresh blood, and throbbing like a bitch. “Shit, shit…” he hissed to himself, clumsily wrapping up the cut with some clean cloth strips. Oh, this was gonna ache for days to come. After trying, and doing a shit job of it, he had bandaged his thumb up in clean scraps of linens. Blood blossomed on the appendage, and it stung like shit when he poured the whiskey on, but it was something. Arthur wasn’t here to fix it for him anyway, as much as he would like it.

Those kinds of thoughts were swiftly pushed out.

In the half an hour he had spent patching up and sulking, the sun had cleared away the fog and mist, replacing them with soupy air and humidity. The sky still held it’s cloudy and grey look, an omen as to the amount of rain that would come in the following day. Gnats were incessant around the whole damn place now that the heat sunk in. The smell of Pearson’s stew wafted throughout the camp, and as hungry as Micah was, he couldn’t bring himself to eat the ex-marines food. It tasted like tree bark and rat tails to him, so he usually opted for canned stuff or pork or candies. Anything to avoid the man’s awful cooking. 

He drummed his good hand against the pronghorn-leather table, another reminder as to how providing Morgan really was. The workhorse would never admit to it, but Arthur was, in Micah’s mind, the most hardworking gang member. Even he could admit the man was putting in all his efforts, all the time, as much as he liked to taunt him about laziness. No one in camp could really square up to the amount of hard labor the man put into keeping everything afloat, and it pissed him off. People like Uncle and Swanson were allowed to laze around and drink until they couldn’t see straight, Molly didn’t have to do any work as Dutch’s royal squeeze, and yet somehow no one gave any credence to real effort, sweat and blood effort? It almost seemed criminal.

A low chuckle sounded from his parched throat. Yes, criminal, amongst notorious outlaws. Fitting.

“Are you gonna get on Micah, or are ya just gonna sit there?” the accusing voice of Grimshaw made him snap his head around in surprise, the crone could be stealthy as a cougar when she felt like it. He stuttered, “I-I ain’t been sittin’ not thirty minutes!” He defended, though his voice wasn’t as confident as usual. His thumb ached in protest when he tried to move it off the tabletop. “I’ll be gettin’ along soon, Ms. Grimshaw, don’t. You. Fret.” He wagged his finger at her, hearing her scoff, “Well, make sure you do, Mr. Bell. We don’t have time for stragglers.” 

Straggler, was he? He’d gone out and fished around for leads, robbed the stagecoach with Arthur in Strawberry, did whatever Dutch asked of him, and he donated that twenty dollars to the fuckin’ camp when everyone knew Swanson robbed it for whatever goddamn reason, and somehow he was a straggler?!

Instead of calling out to her as she hastened back to the girls tent, wanting to yell in anger, he sat and fumed in silence with only the drone of gnats and croaks of bullfrogs to accompany him. This is why he never tried to dig in to the camp’s dynamic, they had their little setup, their posse, and he fully joined them on that during jobs. But the family aspects of the place, the way everyone had a certain area of responsibility, a fixed position amongst the lot of them? That, he didn’t have, and didn’t try to push into. It would be painfully awkward if he did, and he knew it. 

No one in camp knew where the hell Morgan was, but that was so common it wasn’t even worrisome anymore. He was always out and about, always looking for money or food to saddle in on horseback, stagecoaches he’d looted all by himself with a good amount of cash to show for it. He’d been gone a couple of days now, almost up to a week, and despite the amount of hate he had for the feeling- he was excited to see Arthur again. He gnawed at his cheek, tasting coppery blood. Excited… but what for? The most the two did was sit around the campfire, Micah almost always scooting a little closer as the night went on. His face felt too hot suddenly, he never made it his goal or anything to get physically close to Arthur, that would be weak on his part. But…

But he was just so warm. Not in the unpleasant way that Clements Point was, where you felt like you’d choke if you breathed too heavy. Arthur was warm like how the heat of the fire radiated comfortingly, or how it felt to eat hot food after a long time in the bitter snow, or how he could oh-so faintly remember holding his Mama’s strong hands. He clenched his jaw tight at the vague image of her, her blonde hair much like his own, blue eyes too.

He rubbed the skin around his cut, suddenly wanting nothing more than to escape into the lake’s shoreline, but his tired body remained glued to the stool. It was a fool’s fantasy, but he couldn’t stop, it made his stomach hurt the more he thought about it, forced his knees to turn to jelly. He wished any of the women in camp did to him what Arthur managed to do so effortlessly, but none of them did. Not even Abigail, and Sadie… the lady certainly had fire, but… well, he was ashamed to admit it, but the woman scared him. She was fire and brimstone, all the wrath of hell personified, and as hot as he found that, submitting to such a lady, he knew she’d skin him alive if he ever made any advances. And unlike so many others in camp, she’d do it too, with no hesitation.

“Hey, Blondie!” He jolted in his seat on the stool, dangerously close to toppling over when the familiar grouty voice yelled at him from across camp. He was beyond pissed for a short second, before he saw who had spoken. It was Arthur, of course, with what may have been the biggest deer Micah’d ever seen, slung over his shoulder like it was nothing. Arthur motioned for him to walk over, and when he pushed himself off the comfy table, he could see why.

He knew they were dangerously low on supplies, hell, Pearson made it more than clear on a near hourly basis. But how much could the shire carry? It was a big as all hell horse sure, but two? Two deer on one horse? ‘Big horse for a big man…’ Micah thought, still observing (and that was the word for it, observing- never staring) at how the scout coat Arthur wore barely held back the muscles supporting that hulking ten-point buck. “Are ya jus’ gonna stand there, or are ya gonna help?” He already sounded pissed off, and even though he was a little miffed at having to lift the smaller doe off his mare, Micah obliged.

“Morgan-” he interrupted himself with a grunt of effort, hefting the deer onto his shoulder, swearing to himself and all god above he absolutely did not struggle to lift it. “Ain’t you got others to help with your chores? I got leads t’find, shit to do. This is borderline women’s work-” “You’re already carryin’ the deer, guess that makes you my little maid.” Arthur laughed to himself, apparently in an agitated-but-playful mood. “Be a good one and get your ass over here n’ stop whinin’.” 

He stops “whining” but the blush that stained his face was fierce.

He kept walking, but sputtered, feeling the air around him suddenly get all the hotter… and prayed he wasn’t pitching a tent in his pants. He readjusted the deer on his shoulder, “Go ta hell, Morgan.” That got another laugh out of the man, and despite how frustrated he was, it made his throat tight to know he’d made him do it. “Yea, n’ I plan on it.” The antler’s of the beast made a racket on the table as arthur laid it across, and Pearson came stumbling around, slightly drunk.”Ah, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Bell. I see you’ve brought us some goodies.” He raised the buck by it’s large antlers, examining it’s size. “Yes, this’ll do us. Put it’s friend over by the wagon Micah, I’ll strip it.” With a huff, he collapsed it against the wagon’s side, silently telling himself he should really use his muscles more often.

“Ah shit.” He rubbed his fingers into his palm, trying to somehow massage the sting. Blood began to reemerge, making crimson bloom across the bandage. “Goddamnit-” He hissed through his teeth, he must’ve ripped the scab or something while lifting that damn deer, and now he was paying for it. He nearly jumped out of his boots when Arthur stalked up beside him, “What’s that from?” he said, voice even. “I-I, it-” He wheezed, trying to recollect his breath and thoughts, “It ain’t none’a your damn business, Morgan!” He shot back, ready for a fight, preparing for another argument, but instead he was dragged back to the pronghorn table.

“I leave for a week, and the day I come back, you’re already’a cuttin’ yourself up? Jesus.” He was sat down at the stool almost like a child in trouble and not like a hardened gunslinger who gashed their hand open. 

And he wasn’t angry about that.

He should’ve been. With every layer of now dirty bandage Arthur removed, the look of a friend and not an enemy in his handsome features, the more his agitation dissipated. He was gentle, so very gentle, those hands so large and warm holding his own, handling the ruined and bleeding flesh as if it was glass. Something tightened within his stomach at all the touches, though he knew they weren’t really… for him. They were happening to him, but they weren’t his. Arthur wasn’t doing this because he liked Micah, no. He felt sorry for such a sorry sight.

He grit his teeth and clenched his jaw when Arthur made the final clean wrap to his wound, “You don’t gotta baby me.” Tears collected in his vision, and his body tensed. Why the hell would he cry? He tried to speak again, tried to shove the man away, but his voice caught in his throat like a rabbit in a trap. “You-” he felt shame fully take him when his voice wavered and cracked like porcelain, feeling the need to yell or sob or both. How many in camp were watching him sit here and blubber like a baby, all because Arthur had gotten mad at him? It only made his face feel hot to think about how useless, no, helpless he must’ve looked.

Arthur however, didn’t laugh. He did not scoff, or leave, or tell the upset man a few inches shorter than him (even while they were sitting here, which he wouldn’t let himself think was a tad cute) he was stupid or a dissapointment, instead he leaned in. “Micah?” Concern flooded his voice, mixed with a kind of morbid fascination, a dangerous cocktail. He didn’t even know Micah let himself cry. “You okay?” his hand rested on the other’s knee, noting how tense he was. The man was clenching his other hand in a fist, as if trying to hold back a fight. He sighed, a stressed and stretched-thin sound, squeezing the other’s knee in a comforting gesture. “It ain’t a big deal Micah, calm down, alright? I ain’t laughin’ at’cha.” He brushed his thumb across the expanse of his thigh, and despite how “sneakily” the other tried to make it, he saw how he scooted closer to him. And in a bout of impatience, and what he would now recognize as fondness, he cast his arm around the other’s waist and pulled him in close.


End file.
